


Want & Need

by ozomin



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Voice Kink, porn with little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozomin/pseuds/ozomin
Summary: Vincent wants Testa so he gets Testa.





	1. Want

**Author's Note:**

> ahh hello i bet you were expecting dads--well that's the second part which will appear shortly so let us relax. The plan is a before and after type thing so we'll get there.  
> enjoy!

Vincent watches Testa write out the order in his spindle thin cursive, lithe fingers creating easy loops across the paper and lets his eyes wander.

They do more often than not these days.

Not when Testa's sleeves are rolled up around his elbows and the flex of muscle is visible in his forearms, or the wisp of lavender hair that he sweeps out of the way of his glasses is any indication.

Or his voice.

Sometimes Testa murmurs the sentence as he writes it. Occasionally seeks Vincent's input when he does and Vincent will answer, he'll reply if only to keep Testa talking to him.

His voice is smooth, it's rain drops sliding down the window pane, it's freshly made bechamel, hot and creamy in the saucepan. Testa's voice makes Vincent swallow his spit in apprehension that he'll do something he'll regret, in desire.

But Vincent has always liked to press.

Especially Testa of all people.

"Testa," Vincent says slowly.

Testa looks up from his paper, flashes golden eyes in Vincent's direction over the desk. He's quickly lost in the swirl of warm hazel.

"You been speaking with that girl lately?" He questions, Testa's been flitting in and out of the Vanetti's more often, attending middle class speak easys and sipping less than quality beer.

Testa shrugs, "She hasn't called," he sounds a tad doleful.

Elena was her name? Vincent takes a sip of the mead, imported may he add, from his glass. "So you don't mind?" Is all he says.

Testa's silent for a while, he writes quietly for a good two minutes, the scribbles of his pen the only thing breaking up the still of the room.

Vincent Vanetti's office is located upstairs, private and locked behind an anteroom. Vincent's father, the current Don, wants him to be prepared should the time to take over come unexpectedly.

Testa helps him sort out various day to day operations that his father is too busy to attend to.

Vincent's about to excuse himself when Testa finally puts his pen down. He breathes deeply, exhales slowly before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Vincent scoots his chair back, watches Testa rise from his own chair with dark eyes.

Testa breathes deep again, seems to settle himself before making his way around the desk, he leans his hips back against the hard wood right in front of Vincent and smiles. A little lost upturn of lips.

"I'm proud you've learned the meaning of subtlety," Testa's voice is unreadable. His eyes trace down Vincent's face, expression neutral perhaps hiding a hint of hunger.

Testa shrugs minutely before beginning to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt top down without another word.

Vincent purses his lips.

That simply won't do.

Vincent pulls himself closer by his sudden grip on Testa's hips, crowds Testa up against the desk with his arms.

"You know I like it when you speak Testa," his lids fall halfway like he's daydreaming the firm skin beneath the open fabric, like Testa isn't sliding his own hands up Vincent's forearms.

"We can't do this as often as you want--" Testa inhales sharply as Vincent begins to slide his hand up against his ribs. Vincent's hands are rough from gun handling and perhaps more fistfights than he'd admit to.

"I'll keep doing it as long as you want it." Vincent murmurs against Testa's belly, he gazes up into Testa's face with eyes somber with intent.

Vincent brushes his thumb against a nipple, Testa chews on his bottom lip. He does it until Testa's eyes fall shut, until his mouth goes slack, until his breaths turn shallow.

Until he whimpers.

Vincent smiles.

"Let me hear you," he murmurs against Testa's belly with spit wet lips.

Testa's eyes flicker open, cheeks red and opens his mouth briefly as if contemplating speech before closing it again in second thought.

"Don't be that way," Vincent's saying as he unbuckles Testa's belt then unbuttoning the pants beneath before pulling down the zipper.

"I still have--" Testa chokes out, "--some dignity,"

"It's just us here," Vincent pulls Testa's cock free, he's half hard.

Testa closes his eyes again, grips Vincent's free arm, digs his fingers into Vincent's sleeve.

As Vincent evens out his strokes, Testa appears to succumb easily, relaxing back against the desk, his hips pressing further into Vincent's hands.

The first groan that comes out of Testa's mouth makes Vincent curse.

It's small, a breathless whine from the back of his throat that makes Vincent's mouth dry.

He needs more.

Vincent leans forward and takes the head into his mouth. Testa's fingers tremble.

"Ah, hmm," Testa humms, "...yes,"

Vincent wants to hear that voice bend and shudder, he wants it to break the air like glass smashed against gravel.

He licks with the flat of his tongue, slides the head back and forth across it before taking in half and hollowing out his cheeks.

Testa's fingers slide through Vincent's slicked back hair, long thin fingers tangling in the thick strands.

"Vincent--Vince--" his name slips past Testa's lips deep and slow. Vincent shivers and begins to bob his head to increase the pace. Bud of his lips sliding hungrily across the reddened tip.

Vincent goes until Testa's pressing his other hand into his shoulder, until Testa's cheeks are red and his lips are glossy with spit.

Until he's an unashamed mess.

"I-- I want," There's a sweetness in the desperation that soaks Testa's voice like saturated cake. "Vincent--Nn," his lips part invitingly, enough so Vincent pulls off his cock, saliva connecting the slit to Vincent's tongue.

No.

Vincent won't kiss him, won't even let Testa suck his cock, anything that takes away that sweet voice is a disservice to him.

He's also realized they won't be left alone for much longer so instead he leans forward once more and kisses Testa's hip.

"I like hearing you too much," Vincent admits staring into Testa's face, he's glowing in the afternoon light, behind rose colored window panes, they're both getting older. "My love," he fears Testa's won't be his for much longer. He's going to pursue that woman, he's going to start a family and all this will be a boring rusty afterthought.

Vincent resumes stroking him, albeit slower than he has been, all the while watching Testa murmur his name as he gets lost once more.

His name on Testa's lips is like a comfort word. Something he would find nestled in the sheets at three in a lonely morning.

"Testa," he doesn't have to say anymore. Testa's rising rapidly towards climax, his cock twitching in Vincent's hand.

Testa's first full blown moan cracks the air like a gun shot, he half doubles over Vincent's head to brace himself. Vincent swallows around him, revels in the languid voice filling the room like fine music until he slows down, backs off to keep Testa with him as long as possible.

Testa's voice settles to something more tender than erotic at this point, Vincent likes to think he's solely there to find his own selfish pleasure even if it means he doesn't come. But Testa's satisfaction covers his like a layer of lace. So fragile, gingerly placed.

"I'm close Vincent," Testa gasps, eyes dark behind fogged up glasses.

Vincent nestles his face up beside his hand, breathes in the sweaty skin like it's his own comfort.

"Testa," Vincent says quietly, quiet enough Testa may not have caught it. He squeezes Testa's cock between his fingers.

It's within the same space that Testa gasps brokenly before spilling onto Vincent's hand.

Testa slumps against the desk, come dripping from his cock, his expression lax and easy. His glasses have slipped down his nose. He pulls them off and away, places them on the desk behind him among the rustle of papers.

"We can't do this as often as you want." Testa repeats and the atmosphere of the room splinters like broken wood.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Vincent knows Testa can see the untruth in his eyes. But he wouldn't expect any less.


	2. Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Testa wants Vincent but he doesn't really get Vincent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the dads hellchat  
> enjoy them.

Testa watches Vincent scribble across the ledger, his writing has always been messier, but there's an air of superiority in those staggered angles, in his tensed fingers.

"Testa," Vincent's says, voice low, slower even. "You've finished?" He raises a thick eyebrow.

Testa clears his throat, "Everything's in order, it's within our best interest that we look for a better opportunity to acquire higher quality alcohol." He pushes his glasses by the rim.

"I see," Vincent says shortly.

Testa frowns, "How's Nero?" he looks back down at the folded paper in front of himself, ready for an envelope.

Vincent shrugs but Testa's doesn't see it. "The boy isn't cut out for the mafia, but I'll be damned if I don't try to change that first."

Testa chews on his bottom lip, he'd only met little Nero once when he was two years old, holding onto his mother like she was his world.

That was two months after Angelo had been born, Nero had given Angelo, bundled up and sleeping one look and hid behind his mother once more. Frate would be born a year later.

Nero's almost fourteen now and Testa thinks he would like the boy if they met again.

He wonders if Nero would be friends with Angelo. His sweet dear Angelo.

"Maybe it's good he doesn't work for the mafia Vincent." Testa narrows his eyes at the paper. He doesn't have to look to feel Vincent's sour expression.

"I mean," Testa continues, "Nero's a good boy, maybe it's better to end it here. End it here before the Galassia's consider the Vanetti's a threat--"

"--He's my first son, he will head this family." Vincent starts, tone cold, "after all, family is priority, our pride," his voice softens but is no less dangerous.

Testa knows when to stop pushing. Especially after his neglect to do so so long ago forced a rift between them.

They're but hollow impressions of themselves. Gems rendered to dust beneath too much pressure.

He can't see that affection in Vincent's eyes anymore.

Testa swallows the spite that burns hot in his throat.

It can't be completely gone can it?

Testa reaches over the desk brushes his thumb across the crows feet at the edge of Vincent's eyes. God they're getting old.

It's only then does Testa connect their gaze. Vincent's is rough and simmering.

"Do you still mind? Testa murmurs.

When did Vincent stop taking pleasure in his voice?

Vincent lets out a resentful breath through his nose.

Testa drops his hand.

He may not be able to completely recover it but maybe there's something left to salvage.

So Testa rises out of his seat, with intent with measure, the same way a tide would. Maybe his hips aren't as languid as they were when he was twenty seven but he sways them anyway, half proactive half desperate.

Vincent's eyes follow him the whole way. They follow him until Testa leans down and they're nose to nose.

Until they slide shut and he lets Testa kiss him.

Vincent's mouth is warm, framed by coarse graying hairs. Testa kisses him like he'll find his own voice in Vincent's throat.

The one that makes Vincent avoid his mouth just so he can hear it.

Vincent only kisses him back. Like an indulgence. Like Testa's presented a poor idea and Vincent's only listening so he isn't hurt over it.

Testa murmurs against his cheek, near his ear with wet lips, Vincent always liked when he did that.

Vincent hums and something bursts in Testa's chest.

Testa's knees hit the floor harder than necessary, his fingers sliding up to curl around Vincent's pants buttons.

"You've never let me do this before," Testa says smiling, melancholy. He strokes Vincent's soft cock with gentle fingers. He leans down and pushes the head back and forth past his lips. He continues until he feels Vincent begin to tense under him, until the cock in his hand stands on its own.

Testa swallows down half of him, hollows out his cheeks and bobs his head with a distinct tinge of inexperience that shows in his aching jaw and stinging knees. Vincent winds a hand down, the span of his large palm sliding back through Testa's hair, scattering his glasses onto the floor and taking half his fringe back and away from his mouth. Vincent's fingers tighten almost painfully at the same time his hips thrust forward, sudden enough Testa's eyes prickle at the edges and he gags the moment Vincent pulls out. The tip of his cock resting swollen against Testa's parted lips.

Testa figures this just might be the way it is now. But he's less than complacent.

Vincent's thrusts are more shallow, tinged gentle while his hand holds Testa steady, fingers digging hard into his scalp much harder in contrast.

Spit dribbles down Testa's chin, lines his neck like sweat, while the taste of precome spreads across his tongue and slides down his throat.

Maybe Vincent's using him and maybe Testa might not mind. It's better than Vincent completely ignoring him anyway.

Testa rests his head against Vincent's thigh, his cock, warm and wet against Testa's cheek. His throat is blistering and raw, eyes glassy.

"I do mind Testa," Vincent's voice is thick, soft, his hands running through Testa's hair like he would a cat, delicate, careful. "You bother to bring up old wounds like fucking you will act as a balm. It won't." He brushes his thumb across Testa's moist bottom lip. "You please your wife with such sinful lips Testa. Your voice is no longer mine." He says roughly.

Testa can feel the old callouses that litter Vincent's coarse palms. His skin is beginning to slacken, it's not as firm as it once was. He exists in forms of his former self. Waxing and waning between youth and seniority.

Eyes that pierce strong like stone to hair that streaks gray like sunbleached leaves.

Testa could never even begin to imagine him any different. He nuzzles his nose into the still dark tuft of hair at the base of his cock before briefly licking the shaft as if it were a suitable reply.

Testa pulls away, stands up, in his knees spreads relief at the loss of weight. He quickly divests himself of his pants, too hasty to pull them off all the way, leaving one pant leg still around his ankle.

"Vincent," he murmurs, tender like that of a lover. Testa straddles his lap, Vincent's cock nestled between his ass cheeks.

Vincent looks wholly unfazed, his steady gaze daring Testa to go through with it.

"Picture your wife instead--" Vincent cuts him off with a bruising grip around his throat, holds him where he wants him.

"I'll picture you Testa," With his free hand, he reaches around, guides his cock to Testa's asshole, puckered and tight.

He watches Testa gasp brokenly as the head presses in with no prior preparation, only Testa's own spit to ease the way.

Testa groans, rough with pain, brushed coarsely in pleasure, nirvana buried beneath grains of dry sand, shifts his hips forward, feels the burn at his rim, in his throat as Vincent squeezes harder.

His own cock remains untouched, flushed and erect, bouncing against his belly with every move of his hips.

He's too lost in the lack of bloodflow, in the sudden stretch to accommodate to do anything else but pant almost silently.

The moment Vincent lets go, Testa can see the resentment flash white in both their eyes, it morphs into a wave of alleviation that washes over him, overwhelms him as blood begins to circulate once more.

A heavy bead of precome drips from Testa's cock, lazy and viscous, onto the front of Vincent's dress shirt. The stain a darkened spot against the otherwise creme of the shirt.

"What did you really want to tell me Testa?"

Testa's eyes are blown wide, half lidded, dreamy even. He only feels the outstanding fullness that spreads him open, can barely focus on much else, much less demands from Vincent.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Vincent continues.

When Testa finally opens his mouth, it feels dry and gritty, uncomfortable. "This is what I wanted," he croaks on the edge of defeat. Vincent will always undercut him, always be there to point out his raw wounds. He'll stick his hand into the laceration and pull forth sinew and tendon.

He'll tear Testa to shreds before he realizes it.

Vincent goes almost slack at the admission. He gives Testa an expectant look. So Testa starts moving, he shifts up and down, his cock barely pulling out halfway before filling him once more. Testa moves with a gentle desperation, one only Vincent can see.

He's right. He still wants this. He wants Vincent to reciprocate the way he so painstakingly did so twenty years ago.

Testa tries his hardest to inject the very affection that so clearly dissipated like ink into water back into every touch, every rock of his hips, every time Vincent's cock sinks back into him.

He gets lost in the movement of his own hips, Vincent's scarily still, Testa wouldn't put it past him if his cock were softening inside him right then.

Climax is low and approaching, that's when Testa realizes that he hasn't been moaning. His gasps have been quiet and infrequent.

Not that Vincent would even appreciate them anymore so he doesn't bother.

Testa's chest heaves, takes away the volume and leaves the scratch of him gulping for air.

Vincent's come is trickling and sticky down his thigh when he himself comes.

"Vincent," it shudders through him, come spouts from the tip of his cock paints Vincent's shirt like his precome did.

Vincent turns his head, the sun rays help to feign a light his eyes may no longer have, and like the last nail in the coffin he doesn't kiss him.

Perhaps refuses to.

Testa feels his chest collapse in on itself, hollowing out before his own eyes.

He stands on shaky legs and begins to gather his clothes and locate his shoes.

This part of them corrodes away and Testa hopes his family is enough fill the gaping hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you know it's very difficult to make face fucking have any semblance of romance  
> i tried and this turned into sad sexy time shhh


End file.
